Theme Park
One of the most endearing traits of children is their utter trust
that their parents will provide them with all of life's necessities,
meaning food, shelter, and a weekend at a theme park.
A theme park is a sort of artificial vacation, a place where you
can enjoy all your favorite pastimes at once, such as motion
sickness and heat exhaustion.
Adult tolerance for theme parks peaks at about an hour, which
is how long it takes to walk from the parking lot to the front
gate. You fork over an obscene amount of money to gain
entrance to a theme park, though it costs nothing to leave
(which is odd, because once you've been inside the walls for a
while, you'd pay anything to escape).
The two main activities in a theme park are (a) standing in line,
and (b) sweating. The sun reflects off the concrete with a
fiendish lack of mercy -- you're about to learn the boiling point
of tennis shoes. Your hair is sunburned, and when a small
child in front of you gestures with her hand she smacks you in
the face with her cotton candy; now it feels like your cheeks
are covered with carnivorous sand.
The ride your children have selected for you is a corkscrewing,
stomach-compressing roller coaster built by the same folks
who manufactured the baggage delivery system at the Denver
International Airport. Apparently the theme of this particular
park is "Nausea." You sit down and are strapped in so tightly
you can feel your shoulders grinding against your pelvis.
Once the ride begins you are thrown about with such violence
it reminds you of your teenager's driving. When the ride is over
your children want to get something to eat, but first the ride
attendants have to pry your fingers off of the safety bar.
"Open your eyes, please, sir," they keep shouting.
They finally convince you to let go, though it seems a bit
discourteous of them to have used pepper spray. Staggering,
you follow your children to the Hot Dog Palace for some
breakfast.
Food at a theme park is so expensive it would be cheaper to
just eat your own money. Your son's meal costs a day's pay
and consists of items manufactured of corn syrup, which is
sugar, sucrose, which is sugar, fructose, which is sugar, and
sugar, which is sugar. He also consumes large quantities of
what in dog food would be called "meat by-products." When,
after another couple of rides, he announces that he feels like
he is going to throw up, you're very alarmed -- having seen his
meal once, you're in no mood to see it again.
With the exception of that first pummeling, you manage to stay
off the rides all day, explaining to your children that it isn't
good for you when your internal organs are forcibly
rearranged. Now, though, they coax you back in line,
promising a ride that doesn't twist, doesn't hang you upside
down like a bat, doesn't cause your brain to flop around inside
your skull -- it just goes up and then comes back down. That's
it, Dad, no big deal.
What they don't tell you is HOW it comes back down. You're
strapped into a seat and pulled gently up into acrophobia, the
city falling away from you. Okay, not so bad, and in the
conversation you're having with God you explain that you're
thankful for the wonderful view but you really would like to get
down now.
And that's just how you descend: NOW. Without warning, you
plummet to the ground in an uncontrolled free fall. You must
be moving faster than the speed of sound because when you
open your mouth, nothing comes out. Your life passes before
your eyes, and your one regret is that you will not have an
opportunity to punish your children for bringing you to this
hellish place.
Brakes cut in and you slam to a stop. You gingerly touch your
face to confirm it has fallen off. "Wasn't that fun, dad?" your
kids ask. "Why are you kissing the ground?"
At the end of the day, you let your teenager drive home. (After
the theme park, you are impervious to fear.)
[ by
W. Bruce Cameron Copyright © 2000 -- { used with permission } ]
Inspirational Humor
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